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A well-loved guide on topics ranging from sexuality, death, and parenting, to forgiveness, peace, and prayer, Johann Christoph Arnold is a best-selling author whose books draw on wisdom gleaned from a lifetime of counseling couples and singles, teens, prison inmates, the aged, and the terminally ill. A pastor and father of eight, he is widely sought as a speaker at campuses and conferences around the globe.

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Why Forgive?

Plough Publishing House

Chapter One

The Cancer of Bitterness

Whoever opts for revenge should dig two graves.

CHINESE PROVERB

Forgiveness is a door to peace and happiness. It is a small,narrow door, and cannot be entered without stooping. Itis also hard to find. But no matter how long the search, itcan be found. At least that is what the men and women inthis book have discovered. By reading their stories, perhapsyou, too, will be led to the door of forgiveness. Justremember that once there, only you can open it.

    What does forgiving really mean? Clearly it has little todo with human fairness, which demands an eye for an eye,or with excusing, which means brushing something aside.Life is never fair, and it is full of things that can never beexcused.

    When we forgive someone for a mistake or a deliberatehurt, we still recognize it as such, but instead of lashingout or biting back, we attempt to see beyond it, so as torestore our relationship with the person responsible for it.Our forgiveness may not take away our pain ? it may noteven be acknowledged or accepted ? yet the act of offeringit will keep us from being sucked into the downwardspiral of resentment. It will also guard us against the temptationof taking out our anger or hurt on someone else.

    It is only natural, when we are hurt, to want to revisitthe source of that hurt. There is nothing wrong with that.Whenever we do this in the sense of chalking up anotherperson's guilt, however, our pain will soon turn into resentment.It doesn't matter if the cause of our pain is realor imagined: the effect is the same. Once there, it willslowly eat away at us until it spills out and corrodes everythingaround us.

    We all know bitter people. They have an amazingmemory for the tiniest detail, and they wallow in self-pityand resentment. They catalog every offense and are alwaysready to show others how much they have been hurt. Onthe outside they may appear to be calm and composed,but inside they are about to burst with pent-up feelings.

    Bitter people defend their grudges constantly: they feelthat they have been hurt too deeply and too often, andthat this exempts them from the need to forgive. But it isjust these people who need to forgive most of all. Theirhearts are sometimes so full of rancor that they no longerhave the capacity to love.

    Almost twenty years ago my father and I were asked bya colleague to visit an acquaintance who claimed she couldno longer love. Jane's husband lay dying, and she longedto comfort him, yet something seemed to hold her backfrom within. Jane was by all accounts a blameless person:she was neat, meticulous, capable, hard-working, andhonest ? yet in talking with her it became clear that shewas as unfeeling as a rock. She really could not love.

    After months of counseling, the cause of Jane's coldnessfinally became clear: she was unable to forgive. She couldn'tpoint to a single large hurt, but emotionally she was tieddown ? in fact, almost completely incapacitated ? by thecollective weight of a thousand small grudges.

    Thankfully Jane was later able to overcome herself andrediscover the joy of living. That was not the case withBrenda, another embittered woman I attempted to counsel.Sexually abused by her uncle for years and silenced byher alcoholism, which her tormentor supported with dailygifts of vodka, she had finally escaped from him, but shewas still under his thrall.

    When I met Brenda she had been offered intensive psychiatriccounseling. She also had a good job and an extensivenetwork of supportive friends, who had made everyeffort to get her back on her feet. In spite of this sheseemed to make no progress. Her emotions swung widely,from excited laughter to inconsolable weeping. She bingedon food one day and fasted and purged the next. And shedrank ? bottle after bottle.

    Brenda was without question the innocent victim of ahorribly depraved man, yet the better I got to know herthe more it seemed that she was perpetuating her ownmisery. In refusing to lay aside her hatred for her uncle,she was continuing to let him exert his influence over her.

    Brenda was one of the most difficult people I have evertried to help. Again and again I tried to get her to see thatuntil she could forgive her uncle ? or at least see beyondthe fact that he had abused her ? she would in effect remainhis victim. But my efforts were in vain. Increasinglyangry and confused, she drove herself deeper and deeperinto a jungle of despair. Finally she attempted to strangleherself and had to be hospitalized.

    The wounds left by sexual abuse take years to heal; oftenthey leave permanent scars. Yet they need not resultin life-long torment or in suicide. For every case likeBrenda's, I know of others where the victims have foundfreedom and a new lease on life by forgiving.

    Forgiving does not mean forgetting or condoning awrong. Certainly it does not depend on a face-to-facemeeting with the person responsible for it, which ? in thecase of sexual abuse, at least ? may not even be advisable.But it does mean making a conscious decision to stophating, because hating can never help.

Bitterness is more than a negative outlook on life. It is adestructive and self-destructive power. Like a dangerousmold or spore, it thrives in the dark recesses of the heartand feeds on every new thought of spite or hatred thatcomes our way. And like an ulcer aggravated by worry ora heart condition made worse by stress, it can be physicallyas well as emotionally debilitating.

    Anne Coleman, a Delaware woman I met at a conferenceseveral years ago, experienced this firsthand:

One day in 1985 I picked up the phone to hear my niece in Los Angeles say, "Anne, Frances has been shot. She's dead."

I can't remember screaming, but I did. I made plans to fly out to California immediately, and on the plane I really thought I could kill someone. If I'd had a weapon and the murderer, I probably would have done just that.

By the time I got off the plane I was getting concerned about how I was going to greet my son Daniel, who was flying in from Hawaii. Daniel was an army sergeant, and he had been trained to kill.

When we got to the police station the next morning, the only thing they told us was that my daughter was dead, and that everything else was none of our business. Sadly, this remained the case throughout the days we stayed in Los Angeles. The violent crimes coordinator told me that if they hadn't arrested someone in four days, I shouldn't expect an arrest: "We just have too many homicides in this precinct ? we spend only four days on homicides."

This enraged my son Daniel. When he found out that the police department was really not interested in finding his sister's killer, he said he was going to go out and buy an Uzi and mow people down.

They hadn't really prepared us for what we would see when we picked up her car from the pound. Frances had bled to death in her car. The bullets had passed through her aorta, her heart, both lungs. She had choked on her own blood. She died early on a Sunday morning, and we picked up the car late Tuesday afternoon. It stank. That smell never left Daniel's mind, and he wanted vengeance in the worst way. He really wanted someone to do something ? some kind of justice for his sister.

Over the next two-and-a-half years I saw Daniel go downhill, and then I stood alongside his sister's grave to watch him being lowered into the ground. He had finally taken revenge ? on himself. I saw what hatred does: it takes the ultimate toll on one's mind and body.

Chapter Two

Believe in Miracles

Hope for a great sea-change
On the far side of revenge.
Believe that a further shore
Is reachable from here.
Believe in miracles
And cures and healing wells.

SEAMUS HEANEY

Gordon Wilson held his daughter's hand as they lay trappedbeneath a mountain of rubble. It was 1987, and he andMarie had been attending a peaceful memorial servicein Enniskillen, Northern Ireland, when a terrorist bombwent off. By the end of the day Marie and nine other civilianswere dead, and sixty-three had been hospitalizedfor injuries.

    Amazingly Gordon refused to retaliate, saying that angrywords could neither restore his daughter nor bringpeace to Belfast. Only hours after the bombing, he toldBBC reporters:

I have lost my daughter, and we shall miss her. But I bear no ill will. I bear no grudge ... That will not bring her back ... Don't ask me, please, for a purpose ... I don't have an answer. But I know there has to be a plan. If I didn't think that, I would commit suicide. It's part of a greater plan ... and we shall meet again.

Later Gordon said that his words were not intended as atheological response to his daughter's murder. He had simplyblurted them out from the depth of his heart. In thedays and weeks that followed the bombing, he struggledto live up to his words. It wasn't easy, but they were somethingto hang on to, something to keep him afloat in thedark hours when grief overwhelmed him.

    He knew that the terrorists who took his daughter's lifewere anything but remorseful, and he maintained that theyshould be punished and imprisoned. Even so, he refusedto seek revenge.

Those who have to account for this deed will have to face a judgement of God, which is way beyond my forgiveness ... It would be wrong for me to give any impression that gunmen and bombers should be allowed to walk the streets freely. But ... whether or not they are judged here on earth by a court of law ... I do my very best in human terms to show forgiveness ... The last word rests with God.

Gordon was misunderstood and ridiculed by many becauseof his stand, but he says that without having madea decision to forgive, he never could have accepted the factthat his daughter was never coming back. Nor could hehave found the freedom to move on. Forgiving also had apositive effect that reached beyond his personal life. At leasttemporarily, his words broke the cycle of killing and revenge:the local Protestant paramilitary leadership felt soconvicted by his courage that they did not retaliate.

If Gordon's ability to forgive as quickly as he did seemsadmirable, it is also unusual. For most of us ? as for PiriThomas, a man readers may know for his autobiography,Down These Mean Streets ? forgiveness does not come soeasily:

Whenever I hear the phrase "forgive and forget," my thoughts flow back to the forties and fifties, to the ghettoes of New York. There, where violence was and still is a part of life, so many times I heard people who had been wronged refuse when they were asked for forgiveness. Or, they would compromise with "OK, OK, I'll forgive you, but I sure won't forget."

    I have been among the countless who have made thatsame angry promise. I remember the painful trauma Isuffered when my mother Dolores passed away. She wasthirty-four, I was seventeen. I got very angry at God fornot letting my mother live, and refused to forgive Godfor being so inconsiderate. As time went by, I forgaveGod, but for a very long time I couldn't forget becauseof the great pain alive in my heart.

    At the age of twenty-two, I became involved in a seriesof armed robberies with three other men. In the commissionof the last armed robbery, there was a shoot-outwith the police. I was shot by one of the officers, whomI shot in return. The policeman recovered. Otherwise Iwould not be writing this article, for I would have beenput to death in the electric chair at Sing Sing.

    While I was recovering in the prison ward of BellevueHospital, one of the three gunmen, a man namedAngelo, turned state's evidence against me. Angelo waslike a brother to me. We had both grown up on the sameblock of 104th Street. Angelo ratted on me about somepast unarmed robberies because detectives at the 23rdPrecinct threatened to beat him up so badly that evenhis own mother would not be able to recognize him.Angelo held up for as long as he could and then spilledout to the detectives what was and never was. When Iwas released from Bellevue Hospital, I was incarceratedin the Manhattan Tombs to await trial, where I foundout that all that Angelo had confessed to had beendumped on me ...

    To make a long story short, I was sentenced to five toten and five to fifteen years to run concurrently, at hardlabor, first at Sing Sing and then at Comstock.

    From time to time over the years, I would steam withanger over Angelo's betrayal, which had led to two armedrobbery warrants hanging over me in the South Bronx.In my cell at night I would find myself fantasizing onways to kill him or at least hurt him so bad he wouldbeg for death. Angelo and I had been tight brothers fromthe streets. I loved him as such, but now in prison I hatedhim and only wanted to get even with him in the worstway. To tell the truth, I fought against these murderousfeelings over the years and even prayed to get those violentthoughts out of my mind. Sometimes for long periodsof time, I would forget all about Angelo, but whenleast expected, thought of his betrayal would pop upinside of me.

    I was finally released in 1957 and was ordered to reportto both a parole officer and a probation officer eachweek. Back out in the streets, I couldn't help thinkingwhat would happen if I ran into Angelo. I never wentlooking for him because I really didn't want to find him.

    I was attending a small church on 118th Street, utilizingit as a half-way house to keep me free from the gravityof those mean streets. I would think about Angelofrom time to time and feel the anger still alive in myheart. I never met up with him and found better thingsto occupy my mind, like working on the book I startedin prison, meeting a young woman named Nelin, andfeeling the joy of falling in love with Nelin and sharingthe same warm feelings. Angelo began to diminish andslowly fade away from my mind.

    One balmy summer evening we were walking onThird Avenue. Nelin and I were happily checking outjewelry stores, pricing engagement and wedding rings.As we left one jewelry store for another, I heard someonesoftly call out my name: "Oye, Piri." I knew withouta doubt that the voice belonged to Angelo. I turnedto look. His once young face now showed deep lines ofstress, caused perhaps by having to look so often over hisshoulder. I felt the rumbling of some long ago anger tryingto rise like bile out of my guts. I suppressed the urgeand waited patiently to listen to whatever Angelo hadto say.

    Nelin pulled at my arm to get my attention and thenasked me with her eyes if this was the man I had mentionedwith so much anger. She whispered, "Por favor,Piri, don't forget what we have talked about."

    I nodded and turned back to Angelo, who swallowedhard, not so much out of fear but rather as if he badlyneeded to get something out that he had been waitingto say for a very long time. His voice was soft.

    "Piri, I have hurt everybody I loved, and that sureincludes you. In the police station they began to beat meso bad, I couldn't take it. Could you please forgive mefor ratting, bro?"

    I stared at him, wondering how he could have thenerve to be calling me bro after ratting on me, but at thesame time happy to be called bro by him once again.

    "I will understand if you don't, but it took this longfor me to build up my nerve. And even if you don't, Istill had to try, so por favor, what do you say, Piri?"

    I stared at Angelo and only answered when I felt Nelinsqueeze my hand. The words that came from my heartlifted a great weight from my soul, and I felt my spiritsoar free.

    "Sure bro, I forgive you. They say everybody's got abreaking point, and that includes me. So on God's truth,Angelo, I not only forgive you, bro, it's also forgotten andto that I swear on Mom's grave."

    The tears that exploded from Angelo's eyes matchedmy own.

    "Gracias, Piri, for years I've hated my guts for nothaving the heart to keep from ratting on you. If I couldlive that all over again, I would let them beat me to deathrather than turn on you. Gracias, bro, for your forgivingand forgetting, and I mean that from my heart."

    Angelo put his hand out and then started to draw itback, as if not wanting to push his luck. My right handreached out quickly and shook his hand with great sincerityand felt Angelo squeeze my own. We huggedbriefly, and then with a smile he nodded to me and Nelin,and said "See you around, bro" and then walked away. Iput my arm around Nelin's shoulders, she slipped her armaround my waist, and we both watched Angelo as hedisappeared around the corner. I couldn't help thinkingabout something Nelin once told me she had read: "Toerr is human, to forgive divine."

It sure is hard to forgive, but as my father Juan often said, "Everything is hard until you learn it, and then it becomes easy." I had learned. I had not only forgiven my street brother Angelo, but I had also learned to forgive myself for having carried a thirst for revenge for so many years. I felt like the morning sunrise was coming up in my heart. I took Nelin's hand in my own and with smiles we headed towards the next jewelry store. Love in me was at last free from the weight of hate.

I never saw my bro Angelo again, for he moved to another city, and it was with sorrow that I learned some years later that he had been murdered because of money he owed a loan shark.

But I will always be glad that I forgave Angelo. I have learned that the cruelest prison of all is the prison of an unforgiving mind and spirit.

Sometimes, even when we recognize the need to forgive,we are tempted to claim that we cannot. It is simply toohard, too difficult ? something for saints, maybe, but notthe rest of us. We have been hurt just one time too many,we think, or misunderstood. Our side of the story has notbeen adequately heard.

    To me, the amazing thing about Gordon and Piri's storiesis that they did not weigh their options, but decidedto forgive on the spur of a moment, and did so from thebottom of their hearts. If they hadn't, they might neverhave been able to forgive at all.

Continues...

Excerpted from Why Forgive?by Johann Christoph Arnold Copyright © 2000 by Johann Christoph Arnold. Excerpted by permission.
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